


A Tincture of Madness

by otapocalypse



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Massage, Romantic Tension, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otapocalypse/pseuds/otapocalypse
Summary: The night and morning after Yuri's exhibition skate leaves them both wanting. Yuri's sure of his feelings now, but who can tell with Otabek?





	A Tincture of Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Rated more for safety than anything. Let me know if you guys want a part 2

He was alive. Really, truly, alive. Heart pounding, lungs working for air, muscles burning. Sweat pouring down his back. Yuri lay there on the ice for what seemed like hours, letting the coldness seep into his limbs and chase away the ardor of his body. He could almost imagine he could feel the blood pulsing through his veins. The rush almost drowned out the screaming crowd, the sound of blades slicing through the ice towards him. When he finally opened his eyes again, it was like reawakening. He was momentarily blinded by the bright lights still glaring overhead, until a solid shadow blocked them out, and reached out a hand.

Yuri reached up, mirroring the shadow’s actions, and gripped Otabek’s hand as if their lives both depended on it. He couldn’t loosen his grip, couldn’t even think to do such a thing, he was still too worked up and excited for any rational thought, much less words. “Come on,” Otabek’s voice grounded him, “Let’s finish this.” And together, hand in hand, they greeted the crowd, looping back to the kiss and cry in a wide arc that took the last of Yuri’s strength. Once on solid ground again, Yuri narrowly had the sense to snap on his skate guards before wobbling the rest of the way to his coaches, Otabek’s hand in his the entire way.

He missed the glares they gave the older man as he collapsed, knees buckling under him as he sank gratefully down onto the bench, an ungraceful move that was so unlike him, but fuck it, he’d done amazing. His vision blurred momentarily, and he forced the tears back this time, drawing on the image of Otabek on the ice, leaning back against the barrier, ripping his glove off with his teeth so nonchalantly, like he’d been doing things like this his whole life. Maybe he had. The thought made Yuri even weaker. He hadn’t thought that was possible.

Out of danger of making a repeat performance of the scene after his Grand Prix program, Yuri tilted his head back, eyes closed and letting the rest of the world fade out around him. He had no score to worry about, no screaming fans to deal with up close and personal just yet He’d skated his heart and soul out, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take just one moment to sit and just breathe. He knew it was time to move when he felt Otabek’s hand tighten on his and pull, gently insisting they get out of the way for whatever fucker was going to be sitting here next.

Yuri obliged, only because he was too damn tired to do much of anything else. Yakov and Lilia were talking at him, badgering him probably, but he didn’t care enough to make out the exact details of their respective speeches. Something about changing his program at the last minute and how it was the devil’s work, probably. He only rolled his eyes up at the two of them. Yakov looked ready to burst a vessel, Lilia looked calm, and maybe a bit… proud? He wondered what that was about. 

He slowly shot them a grin, that spread across his face and only seemed to infuriate Yakov more. It made Lilia sigh, however, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she waved her hand at something Otabek had said. Yuri sluggishly took in the fact that they’d made it out of the rink and into the entrance to the large arena, before Otabek steered him towards the locker rooms off the main path that was sure to be full of people. It was quieter here, and Yuri could finally make out individual sounds- the distant roar of the crowd, his own harsh breathing, the thudding footsteps made by Otabek’s boots on the marble floor.

The man looked at him, face still blank, and hesitated, as if he didn’t know whether it was a good idea to let Yuri go. Yuri snorted, rolling his eyes and yanking his hand out of Otabek’s to get the door. He flung it wide, shooting a glare at Otabek as he slipped through, not bothering to hold the heavy ass thing open. The simple action alone had caused his head to swim. Once inside, he once again collapsed onto a bench, thanking whatever force of nature that was on his side for the place being completely empty. The other skaters had all hung back to watch the rest of the programs.

Yuri slumped over, head in his hands. His hair had come undone in a mess of frizzy tangles, falling down to frame his face with an irritating tickle that he didn’t even have the strength to swipe away. Goosebumps were rising on his arms now, the cold air of the locker room doing its job and cooling him down after the overexertion he’d put himself through on the ice. He let a shudder pass through him; the only person here to see his moment of weakness was Otabek. An instant later something warm and stiff and heavy was draped over his shoulders. Yuri looked up.

Otabek, fuck him sideways and bless his soul, had of course immediately stripped his own jacket and given it to Yuri. He drew the shitty thing closer around himself, slipping his thin arms through the too-large sleeves and giving a pointed look at his own purple jacket slung over Otabek’s bare arm. He only got a shrug as an answer, before Otabek turned away and strode off, to do who knew what. Yuri watched as he walked away, the thin white tank he was wearing leaving nothing to the imagination. 

Now, away from the prying eye of the public, Yuri allowed himself to think about what they’d just done. His eyes traveled over the line of Otabek’s neck, over the solid blocks that formed his shoulders, down the curve of his back and stopping just above his ass. He was playing a dangerous game here, he knew, indulging himself like this. If Otabek were to see… Thankfully, he was satisfied and long done with his quiet evaluation by the time Otabek turned around, producing a scarily yellow sports drink from the mini fridge Yuri hadn’t even noticed was there.

He made sure to keep his eyes on Otabek’s as he walked back over, approaching Yuri closer than was necessary and holding out the drink in a silent offer. His eyes still locked with Otabek’s, Yuri took the bottle from him and tipped it back, only breaking eye contact when the cool, sweet liquid hit his tongue in a rush. Yuri closed his eyes, sighed, before taking several greedy pulls. He let out a feral sounding hiss as he slammed the drink down onto the bench beside him, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “Thank you,” he mumbled, then swallowed. His throat, hot and tight and dry just moments before, had only been soothed momentarily; he still felt like he had to fight to make any words come out.

Otabek nodded. Silent fucker. Yuri wanted to hit him. He wanted to do other things to him. He did none of the impulsive, vulgar things running through his mind and instead leaned back on his arms, looking up at Otabek. What was he thinking? Probably not anything like what Yuri was. It was a few moments like this, the two of them surveying each other, the observer and the observed, a wild animal and the curious explorer who’d crept too close and couldn’t bear to look away.

It was Otabek who broke the silence first, clearing his throat and mumbling a deep, “Should get you back to your hotel room. Shower, eat, rest. That sort of thing.” It wasn’t a question, but his eyebrow quirked up anyway, and Yuri wanted to hit him all over again. He agreed, however, and let Otabek lead him out, once they had grabbed their things. The night air was cool enough to chill, but not freezing as they approached Otabek’s bike. He gave a little “heh” when he saw the excited grin on Yuri’s face. “You know our hotel is just across the street.”

“Why the fuck do you feel the need to ruin my fun? It’s a motorcyle.” He retorted, snapping on the spare helmet Otabek kept in the saddlebags and already swinging his leg over the seat. He smirked at Otabek. “What are you waiting for?” _An invitation?_ He wanted to taunt. _It’s your own bike. A kiss on the cheek?_ He was glad he hadn’t said that one out loud. Otabek only huffed and slipped on his own helmet, sliding into place in front of Yuri and kicking the bike to life.

This ride wasn’t as fun as the first, he thought, though he hadn’t expected a ride across a single two-lane road to meet the expectations set by the wild chase they’d had just a few days prior. Yes, having a bunch of fangirls tracking after him really did make weaving through traffic that much more exciting, so kill him. He clung to Otabek as if they were going top speed regardless, still wearing the guy’s jacket and wanting an excuse to feel the warmth radiating from his body. If his closeness bothered Otabek, the man didn’t say anything.

Yuri immediately had to question his own ability to take stock of himself when they arrived and he tried to stand, immediately swaying as the world spun around him. He caught himself just in time, but when he looked up again the lights coming from the hotel hurt his head, as did the concerned look Otabek was giving him. “Fuck off,” he answered gruffly, reaching to tug his bag free. Otabek shook his head and brushed him aside, ignoring the indignant hiss he earned for his efforts.

He turned, brandishing both bags in his arms easily, almost as if he were showing off, and Yuri almost swooned again. “You’re tired.” Otabek reasoned, though there was a firm edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You stayed up all night to plan this evening, and then you nailed it, at the cost of your energy.” He continued, when Yuri tried to interrupt. That little smirk again, there and gone in a fleeting instant. “Let me.”

They went to Yuri’s room first, thankfully on the lower levels. He’d pooled his money with Mila’s this year so that they could have their own damn room for once, before she had fucked off to Timbuktu on day one and never returned. He’d seen her around, he was sure, so she wasn’t dead. His slim fingers slipped the keycard from his bags, swiping through the sensor and letting them in with a few swift, practiced motions. Yuri saw Otabek watching out of the corner of his eye and smirked, pushing open the door.

Not that he had the energy to do much of anything about that problem right now. Not that he was thinking of doing anything at all right now. He was Yuri Plisetsky, he had self control. Still, when Otabek set down the bags with a huff and rolled his shoulders, Yuri found it hard to look away. The room was dim with the door closed, but he didn’t feel like shuffling over to flip the light on, it was just too much work. He still needed a shower, and some food, before he let the dead weight of his limbs drag him into bed. So, he thanked Otabek, being as polite as he could to someone who called himself a friend yet got under his skin so much. He seemed hesitant to leave, until Yuri gave him another one of those “I-can-take-care-of-myself-you-fucking-mother-hen” looks and he was making cheerful excuses and backing out the door.

Alone now, Yuri sighed, shoulders dropping. He picked up the phone and dialed for room service, ordering a ton of food he knew he’d probably fall asleep before eating. Once that was done, he stretched, slowly popping every joint in his body; first his neck, then his shoulders, elbows, all the way down to each individual finger and toe. A series of cracks marked his progress, and he hummed in satisfaction when they were all done. Yakov would’ve shrieked and ascended to the astral plane.

While he was waiting on room service, he figured he might as well run a bath instead of just hopping in the shower. He’d earned it. If someone actually got here before he was done, well, they had the keys. He lazily stripped off the stupid leather jacket Otabek had insisted on leaving with him, then came the necklace, the tank, the boots he’d worn on the way over. The pants proved to be another enemy altogether, and after much cursing and struggling on the floor, he managed to wriggle out of the damn things, kicking them across the room to lie in a crumpled heap for good measure.

He peeled off his boxers then, and they joined the pants, flung across the room just because he could. The soreness was truly starting to set in then, and Yuri limped into the bathroom, running the water near-boiling temperature, as much heat as he could handle without marring himself for good. It was worth all the trouble, when he finally sunk in with a deep, heartfelt groan. The heat was just bearable, already forcing his locked up, tired muscles to relax.

He soaked for a few minutes, head tilted back against the tile wall, until the ruined knot of his ponytail spoiled that experience. Scowling, he reached up to undo his hair in one swift motion, letting it fall down around his shoulders in a sweaty, tangled mess. He flicked the tie aside before sucking in a breath, and ducking fully under the water. The heat stung his face and made his eyes hurt, but he was up again, as quickly as he’d been down, no damage done.

He took his time scrubbing the sweat and dirt off of his body, long, slim fingers working the skin and the muscle beneath it, until the ache wasn’t so terrible anymore. If anyone came to the door, he didn’t hear them, or they didn’t make a noise. He really couldn’t bring himself to care. His hair and shoulders he’d saved for last, as impractical as it probably was. He reached around and squeezed each shoulder, letting out a quiet grunt as more tension gave way. Scrubbing the shampoo and conditioner into his scalp was the last step, one he repeated too many times to count, eventually using up all the little bottles of hotel soap lying around. 

He knew he’d probably already spoiled himself way more than Yakov or Lilia would have approved. The hot water had faded to a weak semblance of lukewarm, his cue to gingerly pick himself up out of the water and drain the tub. Yuri stood still for a moment, eyes half-lidded as he watched the steam roll off his own body, before grabbing a fluffy white towel and tying it around his waist. His prediction had been correct; as he walked out of the bathroom he noticed a tray set on the small desk that substituted a table in these rooms. Bending down with a content little noise, he began rummaging through his bag until he produced a pair of kitty pajama pants, dropping the towel and quickly tugging them on.

He made it through a colossal two piroshkis and another sports drink before he gave up, flopping down onto the bed and curling into himself, twisting the soft, padded sheets around him. He wasn’t out as soon as his head hit the pillow, however. The night’s events kept playing on a loop in his mind, until, entirely too late, he slipped into a deep sleep, completely dead to the world until morning.

The alarm set on his phone, incidentally, wasn’t what woke him. It could have been the fact that the alarm was just a cat meowing, or that he was so tired, or any combination of the two. It was light out, pale golden rays filtering in through the curtains, when he glanced around, trying to determine what he had heard. Ah, there it was again- someone pounding insistently on his door. Some asshole trying to ruin his morning. Yuri rolled out of bed with a glare already in place, the kind that scared away anyone who dared wake him up the morning after such a strenuous exercise.

He yanked open the door, jaws already parting to give this stranger the rant of his life. He stopped dead when he encountered Otabek, dressed in a simple sweater and jeans and looking like he’d just seen a ghost. Yuri was about to snap and demand what he was staring at, before remembering he was only in a pair of thin, flowy pajama pants. He blushed, a rosy color that spread to his shoulders, and wordlessly stood aside. “I see you’re back to being the perfect gentleman.” Yuri growled, shutting the door once Otabek was past him.

“I come bringing breakfast,” Otabek held up two brown paper bags, almost sounding wounded. His tone was offset by the tiny smile that appeared then. “And to make sure you weren’t dead.” Yuri huffed at that, watching as Otabek began to set the desk like a dinner table, laying out a couple of bagels and donuts. “Yeah, sure, just make yourself at home in _my room_.” Yuri mumbled, before wincing and starting to crack his joints again. 

The shuffling over on Otabek’s side of the room stopped, and Yuri felt eyes on him the entire time as he went through his routine, quiet snaps and cracks as his joints popped followed by a tiny gasp each time, down, down… Until he stopped, grunting in frustration. “What is it?” Otabek’s deep voice, finally marking his presence in the room with sound once again. “My back.” He grunted. “Won’t pop this morning.”

“On the floor.” Otabek’s gruff voice commanded, no room for disobedience, and Yuri had to comply, albeit with a roll of his eyes as he stretched out on the floor, still in just the pajama pants from the night before. “Deep breaths,” came the order again, and Yuri again obeyed, inhaling until his chest expanded and his shoulders lifted off the floor. As he let that first breath out, he felt the pressure of Otabek’s hands on his lower back, steadily increasing and moving up, until a loud snap echoed through the room and he groaned. Fuck, that felt amazing. “Breathe, Yura.” The reminder had him gulping in air again.

He continued this, moving just an inch up Yuri’s back each time, calloused hands applying pressure, slowly, carefully, until another pop was heard and he immediately let up again. One final, loud snap was heard when Otabek reached the top of Yuri’s spine, and the Russian Punk let out a groan that had Otabek backing up quickly, straightening and rubbing his hands together as if dusting them off. There was nothing but casual indifference in his voice when he next said, “Breakfast?”

The food was eaten in silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Yuri could still only think about the exhibition skate, how hard it had been, how amazing it had felt. He had a feeling though, stemming from nowhere in particular and certainly not based on any solid evidence, that Otabek had already tired of the routine, was already bored with it all, and so for once, Yuri felt the need to say nothing, and Otabek kept up his usual characteristic silence.

Or he would have, if he hadn’t inevitably ended up asking, “How do you feel?” Yuri snorted. So much for moving past the exhibition. Still, he felt his chest swell with pride, and he answered honestly, “Satisfied.” This answer seemed to please Otabek, whose stoic expression became a little less stoic, and melted into something that could’ve been called a smile.

“I’m glad, but that wasn’t what I was asking you.”

 _What?_ Yuri’s head snapped up from his food, instantly on guard, his green eyes flashing as he warily took Otabek in. Nothing had changed; he was still the same old Otabek, still relaxed and natural, except for the warm grin that was starting to spread across his face. It made Yuri blush again. “I enjoyed it.” Otabek said simply. Yuri didn’t answer him, couldn’t get words past the sudden, obnoxious glow of warmth in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him. He had created something with Otabek, something amazing, something they’d both enjoyed, an experience they’d both shared.

He ate the rest of his food in silence, before shoving his shitty emotions back down into their box for the time being and leaning back, placing his feet on the table. “Get out.” He demanded easily, no anger or volume needed, but effective all the same. Otabek stood, gathering the trash up into the empty bags before Yuri could wave him off to leave it. The door closed, a gentle noise that seemed to make the stillness afterwards that much louder. Yuri felt a pang of loneliness in his chest and knew he was screwed. 

Could he really not stand to be apart from Otabek? If that was the case he was no better than the damn old couple. He scoffed and pushed those thoughts away. Watching the door, as if he expected someone to come barging through it and accuse him of his own thoughts, his mind slowly crept to the subject he’d been avoiding, and he finally allowed himself to picture the way he’d seen Otabek the night before; painted in red and oozing confidence.

The way he’d lounged back against the barrier and bored into Yuri with his dark gaze like he was getting the best show he’d ever seen. The bold, striking movements he’d made as he matched with Yuri’s mood on the ice, picking up on and reading his signals like no one ever had before. The heat, the quick and gentle scrape of his teeth as his mouth had closed around that damned glove, whisking it right off like it had been nothing. 

Yuri drew in a breath at that thought, and grew tense all over again. He slowly brought his hand up to his lips, hesitating as those images played, got stuck in his mind, played again. And how had he looked? Sweaty, probably. Angry. Not exactly the image of cool and calm that Otabek had pulled off, but then that hadn’t been what he’d wanted to portray for himself. Still, he dared to let himself wonder what Otabek thought, if Otabek was feeling, thinking, the same way he was right now. He let out a curse.

He really was _fucked_.


End file.
